Sacrifice
by Emmy the Writer
Summary: I will not fall, I will not tremble as they stare at me in anticipation of their glorious bloodshed. I will not falter, but stare into the eyes of death and acknowledge my mortality. Captivity has not quelled my spirit, and nor will you.


The sun is high in the sky by the time I awaken. I used to stretch; where I am from, luxury is taken for granted and I have always had the room to indulge myself. Not today, though. Not yesterday, either. If fact, so many suns have risen and fallen since that day that I think I have forgotten how to stretch entirely.

It wasn't like that in the beginning, mind- we were four. Four in a large cage fashioned from metal and bamboo, all sharing the misery. Company breeds insurgency, so they say: which was true of us. On perhaps (perhaps, because time moves slowly in the sand) the seventh or eight day, we broke out of that flimsy cage, weaponless and without plan, running for the far horizon with reckless abandon.

They all escaped, except me.

The jailor was a troll. Normally, I would have been relieved that he was only a troll, since we are brothers in the Horde, but these are not Darkspears- they are the Sandfury, and they drink blood. Feral, tribal, and utterly remorseless. He comes up the many stairs of the temple- I assume it is a temple- and leers at me, my key jangling with others at his hip, knocking against tiny skulls and strings of beads.

Seeing that I am awake, he comes over and places a huge bowl of food in my cage through a small opening designed for this process. He will stay there until I eat it all- I have tried refusing it in the past, but the whip coiled in his other hand persuaded me otherwise. I have been here for a while now, and they feed me large amounts three times per day and do not allow me to move- I have lost the tone and muscles accrued from years of arduous training. I feel bloated and sick to my stomach, but I eat nevertheless. The whip is spiked.

I had future captives once- two humans. I know their speech, but I have not spoken it in many years. They were scared and tired, without the resolve to even scowl at the jailor as he comes with his key. They have a festival day every two months that demands a sacrifice to their hydra god- Ghaz'rilla, from what I understand. One of the humans went first- they took him away. Then the other one was summoned by the Hydromancer, the troll woman in charge of the mighty god.

I knew I would be next, but nevertheless I still hoped not. This hope was what allowed me to glare at the jailor, to eat my meals without crying, to recite hymns and children's songs to myself, sometimes at the top of my lungs, just so they knew I would not die a broken man.

I eat the food in silence- some is fruit, but mostly it is a soup of undercooked meat and blood. It tastes supremely disgusting, but every time I finish a bowl, I offer the jailor my compliments to chef. He smiles at me, showing chipped and yellow teeth. He is old, I think, but his white hair has been stained red with the blood of his enemies. I do not speak troll, but he makes his intentions quite known as he whittles down a piece of wood with his knife- it is an avatar of myself- and then plunges the dagger into the figurine. It shatters into pieces.

So, many high suns come and go, and still I remain trapped in my cage. I wear only a pair of calico breeches to conceal my nakedness, and I have soiled them many times. You would have too, had you seen the things these trolls do for sport.

Soon after the two humans died, a young, beautiful troll girl was bought up to the altar, which is scant metres away from my cage. This one is used for small ceremonies, I guessed, since my companions were taken away to die.

On the subject of the girl- she was barely out of her teens, from what I know of trolls. Her skin was not yet cracked and weathered with the harsh desert, nor was her jet-black hair stained with blood. If I had an inclination towards other races, I would have found her very attractive. She was escorted by two older trolls who I thought to be parents, but realized were her teachers. They knelt and prayed fervently at the altar, and many other trolls joined them, the numbers swelling to perhaps forty, all gathered around the altar.

The priest- Sezz'ziz- speaks to the girl for many minutes as the sun sets beyond the horizon and the mood becomes tense. He then forces her to disrobe from her childhood garments- a simple dark dress and sandals- and violates her. She looks terrified, but has no choice but to accept the advance; it is a ritual the Sandfury have been doing for centuries.

Afterwards, he summons a young troll who holds a bowl of blood reverently in his four-fingered hands. Sezz'ziz daubs the girl's naked body with it, smearing the death of innocents onto her, marking her as a warrior. She drinks the dregs herself and buckles on a new set of armour- dripping crimson onto the sandy floor as she does so. The priest blesses her and the girl she was once leaves her, replaced by a bloodthirsty monster. She lifts her sword and roars, to tumultuous response from the assembled trolls. She is now one of them.

I have a daughter. Her name is Fiara, and she is eleven years old. Her mother has long since departed, and she lives in Silvermoon with a wine merchant named Celandria. That is what she will grow up as- not a warrior like myself. I could not wish this life on anyone, but I am resigned to live it to the end nevertheless.

Soon, the festival day comes and like all others, the jailor approaches my cage, but does not bring a meal this time. He smiles at me, and I return the gesture. He looks surprised, as though he expected me to finally give in. I will not.

The key turns in the padlock and I step out, not embarrassed by the state of myself. My legs struggle to keep me up, having not been used for many months, nor are they used to the weight I have gained. The jailor motions for me to follow, and I do, quickly flanked by two blood-drinkers, like the girl had become. The procession is long, through the sand that grits under my toenails as we walk majestically through the city of Zul'Farrak. It is empty, but I cannot escape- I am too weak. The sun pressed down hard on by back, and I feel the flesh burning again. The sun and I were never good friends.

The walls are high around me and block the harsh sunlight, but the pictures etched into them do nothing to allay me. There are scenes of great violence, of men being torn apart by the hydra god.

We abruptly emerge into a very open space, a basin of sand, at the centre of which is a pool. It is deeper than the calm water looks on the surface, I feel. Never one for meekness, I return my gaze to the assembly- there are thousands! Troll upon crack-skinned, blood-haired troll, faces painted in masks of carnage, eyes following my footsteps.

At the shallow end of the pool is the Hydromancer, resplendent in a flowing blue robe adorned with shells and beads. In her hand she holds a cane-like staff with an orb fastened to the end, emitting a low blue glow. I have not seen the glow of magic in so long… I almost let it overwhelm me. When we are ill, or dying, our eyes stop glowing with the magic we are gifted and cursed with. As such, I have not even seen my own life-glow in my reflection for many moons. To see the magic my race craves so much hurts a place deep within my soul. I may have never developed my magical abilities, but they are still an integral part of me.

The Hydromancer yells in a high voice to the assembled, who hoot and holler in return. They demand, I suppose, my body and blood to appease their god. She beckons me over, and my step does not falter as I near her. Unlike the other trolls, she does not reek of blood and sweat- she is clean, water still glistening on her skin. In troll, she barks at the blood-drinkers, who force me down onto a thatched raft, of sorts. There they tie my hands and feet and head, so I cannot move. They then pick the raft up and angle it vertically, so I am almost standing with in on my back.

Velratha- the Hydromancer- takes a tiny knife from her robe and scores lines on my body- I recognize it as a prayer, from the walls. Then, her servants tie straps to the raft and lift it, two on one side of the pool, two on the other edge. While they lower it down on to the water, Velratha walks to the other end and caresses the dented metal of an old gong. She looks at me, and for one fleeting moment I think she pities me, but nothing could ever come of it. Instead, I float on the water's surface as she bangs the gong, a huge reverberating crash that could be heard atop Mount Hyjal.

Beneath me, something stirs. Panic blossoms in my bleeding stomach, but I quell it. I will not cry out. I will not give in. They can take whatever they want from me, but they cannot rip my dignity from mind. I will not let them.

The current changes and from where I am I see the tip of a head breach the surface of the water, sending out shivering ripples. Two luminescent eyes stare into mine, sizing me up. Am I enough? It thinks. From below, two other heads appear either side of me, surrounding the raft in a cocoon of fear.

With a great motion, the heads lunge and drag me down into the water.


End file.
